Breakfast in Bed
by Lala Kate
Summary: Pigs and blankets, eggs and wine...a combination fit for something, surely! S4 E7 with liberties. Own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

Act 1: Scrambled

* * *

She felt his eyes directly on her back.

Boring. Searching. Caressing her spine from top to bottom.

Her skin shivered at the implied touch.

Her eyes sought him over her shoulder, daring a peek. Yes—he was still staring. Her stomach tightened in an unsettling mix of excitement and uncertainty, and she fought back the urge to look at him again.

Her mouth was suddenly dry.

Her focus returned to the eggs, but her body was tuned into the man sitting behind her. This man who had helped her ward of certain disaster. This man who sat covered in filth at this ungodly hour because he had chosen to help her.

She swallowed down a flutter, cautious not to let the eggs burn.

The whisking motion became almost hypnotic, and she was unsure whether it was the heat from the stove or that of another source that made her face feel rather flushed.

Was he still watching her? Why should she even care if he were? It shouldn't matter, actually, as he was just that annoying man who had been making her life more complicated during his stay than she would like. Just that man who would soon be on his way, without a care or concern as to the fate of Downton or her family.

Or her, for that matter.

He was just that man had jumped over the fence to save her investment without the need for an entreaty or a plea for assistance. Just that man who stayed awake with her when he could have gone to bed, who allowed her to be of assistance yet offered her his coat when she shivered from cold.

Just that man who had reminded her how glorious it felt to laugh.

Was he still staring at her?

He most assuredly was.

Her fluid motions mesmerized him, the grace of her stance, the manner in which she still managed to look somewhat regal even in their common states of filth. His fingers ached to trace the long locks of hair that had escaped constrictive pins and now trailed wantonly down her back. He could not help but wonder if the rest of it would tumble with a gentle tug, and his body stirred at the thought of it completely unbound, framing her body with no restrictions.

Her body…with no restrictions…

He took a sip of his wine in a futile attempt to calm his racing mind.

It didn't work.

Plates were set before them by hands that had known an evening of hard labor, and he noticed chipped nails of which she had never complained. How he had misjudged her, this lady of complexity now sitting across from him.

Such pride. Such ferocity and passion. And all woman.

Brown stared into brown, hers dropping before his as stirrings she found confusing tickled her legs. He watched her reaction, wondering, dismissing, yet unable to look away from her.

"Who'd have thought it?"

She tossed him a wry look.

"I can scramble eggs, but that's about it."

He sincerely doubted that was all she could do.

"I suspect Carson had plans for this, but too bad."

She stared back at him, wondering just how he would respond to her cooking, to her observation.

To her.

But what came out of his lips took her completely off guard.

"I don't deserve such attention."

"You certainly do. You completely saved our bacon. Literally!"

His grin got under her skin, his small dismissal of such praise setting off a prickly sensation that skimmed across her nerve endings. A sensation she had not felt in some time. One she really should shake off.

Shouldn't she?

She watched him take a bite, oddly satisfied that he seemed to be enjoying the work of her hands.

"So, you're a practical farmer as well as a theoretician. I'm not sure I was expecting that."

He looked up from his plate, all too quickly drawn to her face. He would have to watch himself around her…he could literally just stare at her all night.

The freckles on her neck were oddly alluring.

"I didn't expect to see you as a cook and a water carrier."

She fought the urge to straighten a lock of his hair.

"A night of discovery."

Those eyes.

"Good discoveries."

That grin.

"For me, anyway."

The room became suddenly quiet save the clink of moving silverware and the soft thud of a wine glass being sat upon the table.

"I love how they've all gone to bed without the slightest concern about us. What do they think we were doing?"

His collar grew felt tighter as implication after implication ran through his mind.

"We went for a walk and vanished. Who knows what they thought?"

He gaged her for a reaction.

Had he really just implied what she thought he had?

"Surely you don't mean…_that_, do you?"

He swallowed firmly

"I'm sorry if I have insulted you," he began, a patch of red crawling up his neck catching her attention. "It was not my intention, I assure you."

"I'm not insulted," she tossed back, her brow issuing a challenge, determined to hold her own. "I have been married, you know."

He couldn't help but grin.

"So nothing shocks you anymore?" he put forth as her eyes narrowed in his direction.

"O come now, Mr. Blake. I believe you were more shocked by what happened tonight than I."

Her brow inched a fraction higher. And he could not resist the bait.

"If you mean seeing Lady Mary Crawley get down and dirty, I was rather taken by surprise, I must admit." Her cheeks pinked slightly, and he was having a difficult time not reaching across the table to tug on the lock of hair draping over her neck.

How had he never properly appreciated her neck before now?

"I believe we grossly underestimated each other," she mused, her fork somehow forgotten.

"I am fairly certain that is one mistake I shall never make again," he returned, standing and moving in her direction.

Her chest warmed.

"See that you don't. It could prove to be your downfall."

A congenial smirk met her gaze.

"Is that a challenge Lady Mary? For you know that I am not one to back down from a challenge."

She stood until they were eye to eye.

"Neither am I."

He felt her breath on his cheek.

"Game on, Lady Mary?"

She felt his eyes trace her mouth.

"Game on, Mr. Blake."

And it was all they could stand.

* * *

_In response to a petition formed on tumblr for me to write barnyard antics for Mary and Blake. Dedicated to Cls2011, Miscreant rose and Sylvestria. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

_And here is part 2 of this culinary tease, based upon a most delightful scene in Season 4, Episode 7. Once again, if you enjoyed the appetizer of "Scrambled", you can thank Cls2011 for issuing this writing challenge to me on tumblr. Many thanks to her, Miscreant rose, and Silvestria for their read-throughs and friendship. Love you girls!_

* * *

**Act II: Sizzling**

His face leaned in slightly, testing the charged air sparking in the non-existent space between them. Her breathing quickened, fingers clasping the table behind her as she instinctively sensed the need for support. She knew it was coming, had known from the moment she had smeared mud across his mouth. Her breasts tingled in anticipation.

Then his lips touched down. And her body felt a jolt.

How different, summoning, yet confident his touch now resting on her back. Firm, unflinching, yet she sensed him holding back, offering an invitation rather than making a demand. Just as he had in the barn.

An invitation she accepted with a slide of her mouth over his.

It nearly knocked him over.

Reality was suspended, all he could fathom standing before him, all he could comprehend held securely in his arms. This creature he had not truly known until tonight stood taking charge of him so easily by no other means than being her. He had resisted, distanced himself, determined he would not succumb to the charms other men seemed to find irresistible.

Yet look at him now. Putty in her hands.

Her hands crawled up to his shoulders, this dance of lip on lip, breath on breath building into something both understood yet continued to skirt around. Then they drew back, staring, searching, pondering just what would happen next.

"Unexpected, indeed," he managed, his forehead hovering over her own in a tease that was frustrating.

"Oh, do shut up," she shot back, her eyes hooded, her voice a throaty command.

Then he chuckled. And really kissed her.

Hot, tantalizing. His mouth nudging with a welcome insistence, seeking further entrance into the mystery of her.

Her own lips rounded around his, sampling the top, her body trembling at the foreign taste and feel of something that used to be familiar. But this was new—he was new—and she was shocked at how quickly her mind and body accepted this fact, leaning in, pulling him closer.

Hungry for more.

Fingers stroked the side of his face, mapping the dark stubble, rougher than she had known in the past.

She liked it.

Apparently, so did he.

She felt a small smile against her lips before he claimed her again, setting off a chain of heat as she opened her mouth to him. He groaned into her.

Her toes curled in her shoes.

His tongue made a move, brushing parted lips, easing in, teasing and sampling the exotic realm of her mouth as her hand slid up his neck and into his hair. She answered, stroking the length of him, teasing crevices that tasted of red wine and aroused man.

Her mind began to fog.

Her neck continued to beckon him, he could hold off no longer, his mouth canvassing, making her jump as he found a spot she liked. She was a drug, her skin earthy yet smooth, a heat he would have never guessed she possessed crawling out of her pores and snaking around him in a silken web. Tendrils pulled him closer, his tongue stroking lower, finding her collar bone.

Her back arched into his body. Legs shook, thighs clenched, her very pores honed in on the art his tongue was painting across her skin.

She whimpered into his ear…before she nipped it.

Black eyed gazed back at her, the scent of a man in need nearly making her knees buckle.

God—how had he missed this woman right under his nose?

Mouths slammed into each other, partaking of an unexpected feast. Pressing, biting, begging for something they both wanted yet half-feared. It dangled before them, theirs for the taking, the forbidden fruit of bodies on fire meeting souls just introduced.

Capable hands stroked her back, her side, daring yet still respectful, teasing boundaries she secretly wanted him to cross. Nerve endings were raw, something primal beginning to pulse in deep regions kept quiet for too long. Her senses were unravelling as quickly as her hair as she felt his fingers deftly release the rest of it. The sensation of it falling about her shoulders made her shiver.

And the sight of it nearly made him explode.

"Mary," he whispered, daring her name without her title, watching her eyes round and then hover.

"Charles," she voiced, sampling the taste of his given name upon a palate he had already seasoned.

They now truly saw, eyes open to what had been veiled but hours ago.

Then steps were heard, rudely shoving them apart, her body suddenly cold at the loss of contact. She checked her hair out of habit, pulling a short laugh from him that nearly reduced her to a fit of giggles.

A breath to clear the mind, a stiff back to set the stage. She was ready.

And a servant entered the room.

* * *

_Your thoughts? Act III: Hard-Boiled coming to a kitchen near you soon._


	3. Chapter 3

_Well, a story is once again getting away from me, characters acting out their own will rather than following my original outline. I have come to expect this out of Stranger's Mary and CB, but canon Mary and Blake seem to be just as stubborn. __Who knows where this will go now? I suppose they do...I'm just along for the ride. _

_Own nothing. Hugs and chocolates to Cls2011, Miscreant rose and Silvestria for their edits and ideas. And thanks to those of you sending lovely notes and reviews my way! _

_Bon appetit!_

* * *

**Act III: Strong Brew**

She had fled up the steps with as much pride as could be mustered, acting as if her presence in the kitchen at 4:00 am was something to be expected.

Dirty. Hair unbound. And with a man who looked as equally disheveled as she.

If the fact of their late arrival wasn't enough fodder for gossip, their escapades downstairs most certainly would be. Of course, she wasn't actually sure if anything that had transpired between them had been observed by Ivy.

And just what had actually transpired? Nothing of which to be ashamed. A kiss? A touch?

Several of both, actually. In places that would be deemed highly inappropriate.

In places that were still tingling.

Her hand slid behind her, fingers unfurling in an unspoken summons. She needed to know, wondering if he regretted what they had done. Wondering if he wanted to do more.

Uncertain of her own thoughts and feelings that were pressing her from the inside out.

His palm encompassed hers, warmth moving up her arms into her cheeks as they padded quietly through the great hall. Feet followed each other up the stairs, and she led them to the top where they stopped abruptly.

They stared hard in the silence, hands still connected.

"So this is where we part ways," he finally stated, eyes casting themselves to the point where they remained joined.

"I suppose so."

He looked up at her rather quickly. Had her inflection actually bore a question?

"And what will you do without your lady's maid to assist you?"

Her brow twitched.

"I can actually undress myself, Mr. Blake," she tossed back coyly. "And I seem to remember that you did promise not to underestimate my abilities."

He grinned.

"Believe me. I don't underestimate your abilities in the slightest."

Her pulse shot out of her wrist, her tongue uncomfortably thick.

"So we're back to Mr. Blake now, are we?"

His gaze was direct, yet soft. She swallowed deeply.

"I suppose it would be better when we're among the others."

He dared a stroke across her knuckles.

"And when we're alone?"

His question was barely a whisper, a summons of his own, cajoling a soft stroke from unsteady fingers down the side of his face that nearly undid him.

"Charles, then," she breathed. "When we're alone."

When had being alone with him become a desirable situation?

"Well, then," he stumbled, his eyes heavy with something she wanted to know better. "Goodnight, Mary."

The words nearly stuck in his throat.

"Goodnight, Charles."

He finally released her hand, daring a soft kiss upon knuckles he had just touched. They then parted ways.

She yawned heavily, indulging in a stretch even though she was wide awake. A sudden yearning to be out of her dress and clean quite overpowered her need for sleep. Besides, she was far too alert to rest. Neither her mind nor her nerve endings had yet recovered from his fingers, his mouth...from him.

And she was certain this was something water could not wash away.

Still, the cloth on her skin felt luxuriant as filth from the night parted ways from her body. She washed her hair quickly, not caring if she went to bed with it damp. She bundled herself in her robe, finding her way to her bed when she saw it, lying there innocently at the foot of her bed.

His coat. She had forgotten to give him his coat.

It would never do for it to be found here in her room, yet it's smell would not allow her to keep it hidden. Anna would never give her away, but there was already too much circumstantial evidence on hand to convict them. His coat in her bedroom would be a smoking gun.

Very well, it had to be returned, and with as much haste as possible.

She fought down the voice in her head accusing her of searching for any justification she could summon to see him again, sliding out of her room and moving with stealth down darkened halls until she stood before his door.

If she knocked at this hour, she just might be heard. So she did the unthinkable.

She twisted the knob and silently pushed the door open.

Perhaps that had not been the best of ideas.

The eyes that met hers when she stepped inside were obviously shocked, but they weren't what commanded her attention. For he stood but an arm's length from her, clad in a towel cinched around his waist. And not a stich more.

She knew she was gaping, understood she should simply drop the jacket and return to her bedroom without a word. But she somehow closed the door behind her instead.

And then she couldn't move

Water still clung to his chest, beads of it dripping from his hair to his shoulders in a mesmerizing cascade. She managed to remember herself and drop her eyes, but not before she noticed him returning her stare. She was not exactly well-covered in her sheer nightgown and hastily donned robe. An arm crossed about her chest instinctively, her robe still damp against freshly washed skin.

Neither could find anything to say.

"Your coat," she finally managed, holding out the garment to him in way of an explanation. "I forgot to return your coat."

How odd that she couldn't meet his eyes when she spoke.

"Oh," he returned, taking the garment and laying it down, somehow standing even closer to her now than he had been before. "Thank you."

It would be all too easy to touch him. All too easy. She curled up her fingers tightly against her body.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mary?"

She was standing so very, very close. His hand itched to caress wet hair dangling freely.

"No, Charles. I cannot think of a thing."

Her heart thudded against her lungs, his smile bearing a tenderness that shook her. Why could she think of nothing else to say?

"Goodnight, then."

His neck over-heated, needing her to either leave or step forward. He refused to take advantage, but she was just _there_-in a robe and little else. He wasn't certain how much more of this he could endure.

"Goodnight, then."

Her legs shook, uncertain of which direction to turn.

He adjusted the towel discreetly, attempting to conceal his dilemma.

And bound gazes remained locked, bodies immobile as the clock continued to tick.


	4. Chapter 4

_Posting as I sip my coffee...Yes. I love irony. :) Dedicated once again to Cls2011, Miscreant Rose, and Silvestria for more reasons than I can number._

* * *

**Act IV: Hard Boiled**

Her skin shivered, but not from cold.

In fact, she was warmer than she had been in months, uncertain if the small beads pearling down her neck were the result of wet hair or the fact that she standing but a breath away from this man.

This nearly naked man who had kissed her like there was no tomorrow just minutes ago.

Of course, he had been fully dressed at that point, a state which could not be used to describe either of them now. Her eyes darted down, taking in the relative non-existence of her own covering that draped revealingly over water-slicked skin. Her lungs pressed against her ribs, nervous hands twisting in a weighted silence.

This was not Matthew standing before her. And that reality both terrified and intrigued her.

"Mary," he managed, breaking the silence. His voice was deeper than she remembered, and she noticed the effort it took him to swallow. How dark his eyes had become, their blackened state stilling her breath, making uncertain limbs feel leaden.

How was it she had come to be standing in his bedroom? Like this? Her mind seemed to have deserted her as her senses took command.

"Charles," she whispered, her face moving closer towards his of its own accord. Her breath tickled his cheek, the scent of clean, damp hair making his nerves pulse out of his skin.

The stare was hypnotic, noses nearly touching, eyes revealing too much. She could feel a residual heat radiating from his chest, one inviting her to touch him, to know him in a manner quite private. He licked his lips, stalling, uncertain, her gaze fixing itself to his mouth in an expression that made him burn.

"Aren't you leaving?"

The question scraped his throat, the rough edges of his tone instigating an ache that was getting away from her.

She was leaving, wasn't she? Had that not been her intention before she stepped into this space?

"I should," she reasoned, the pulsing in her temples creating a distracting roar in her head. She was balancing precariously on the edge of something, both emotional and carnal, this living, infuriating man getting to her in places she had thought forever dormant.

"We'd be placing ourselves in a rather impossible situation if I stayed."

He blinked rapidly, his cheek twitching in response to her throaty observation. Had she actually voiced the possibility of what was thundering through his head, images he had been attempting to block in a now faltering attempt to respect her circumstances?

"I suppose we would."

His agreement only beckoned her closer, his stare heating already flaring nerve endings.

"Then I should go."

She watched in fascination as a droplet clung to a strand of his hair, following its progression as it let go of its anchor and fell wantonly to his cheek. A finger made a move, daring to trace, to touch, the look and feel of him still so unfamiliar yet fitting, somehow.

The contact sent a jolt through his body he was certain shook the room, toppling all of his good intentions to the floor. Want morphed into need, one that twisted his insides without mercy. He craved everything about her, this woman who had taken him by surprise in the oddest of places—her spirit, her laughter, her essence.

Her love? The realization punched him in the gut.

"You really should," he tried, his breathing erratic as he fought to keep his body under control, biting back the words he really wanted to say.

"Alright, then."

Had she actually spoken her response or merely thought it? Somehow, she could not remember. Her lips had formed the words, yet hardly sound had emerged, his eyes now transfixed to her mouth, her jaw, her cheek.

Those eyes. She shivered again.

"Alright, then," he finally breathed, closing what little distance remained between them.

Forehead to forehead. Breath to breath.

"Oh, Good God," he muttered.

Then his mouth touched down.

His lips rubbed across hers gently, needing, begging for more than a kiss though a touch so soft it made her ache. Her lips molded perfectly to his in response, unable to refuse this sample of newness caressing her in a gentle plea. His hand cupped her chin, tilting it towards him as nudges became bolder. Tingles shot up her leg into her spine, spurring her hands towards his chest as mouths renewed an acquaintance formed downstairs.

One palm was on her back, the other on her scalp, inching her closer, seeking consent.

It was given.

She was against him now, bodies touching with so little separation, mouths melding into a dance intensifying rapidly. She could feel his chest through the soggy material of her robe, curves firing plains as damp heat met hard warmth. A sound escaped her, tickling her senses as it pressed into his skin.

Her robe tightened about her as it was fisted against her thighs.

Slender fingers would their way around his neck as she stepped in closer, rather shocked at her own boldness as her demands continued to rise. She wanted this, needed this, a destruction of barriers that had confined her within herself. She was clawing to get out, gasping for air, seeking admittance back into her own living spirit through the flesh and soul of this man.

Yes. This man.

His hands were on the move, stroking her spine, claiming her waist, sliding her flimsy excuse of a robe off of one shoulder as his mouth met her ear. She jumped, the feel of his hand rounding her bare arms while his tongue flicked her lobe overloading any reason left to her. She arched in closer, needing his support should her legs falter.

A groan emerged from his depths, making contact with her neck. The feel of her breasts pebbling against him was just too much to take in, filling him with equal measures of feelings both tender and primal. His bottom lip slid across her jaw, his lips progressing naturally down her neck, remembering this taste of this marble slope with a relish he felt everywhere.

Yes…everywhere.

She shifted her hips against him as his mouth now seized her shoulder, a slow melt overtaking her limbs as he memorized her texture with eyes closed. Her fingers clutched his hair, so course, fuller and thicker than what her digits had known before. Air brushed her bare back, pushing her further into his warmth. When exactly had her robe pooled around her waist?

She then realized that deft fingers were making quick work of her loose tie, the sensation of his hands flitting across her naval shocking in their nearness. Deep regions suddenly felt heavy, crying out for a touch of utmost intimacy. There was then a release followed by a drop as her robe puddled at her feet, followed rather quickly by her nightgown.

And then by his towel.

Their eyes met anew, knowing so much more, taking in mysteries hidden just seconds before. He was so different, dark in regions she had known as light. She was perfection itself, so beautiful…

Yet still somewhat broken.

His heart creased painfully.

"Are you certain that you're ready for this, Mary?"

The rough texture of his voice drew her eyes, the flicker of his brow betraying an internal struggle he was attempting to conceal.

"Because if you're not, we can stop right now."

She gazed into eyes lidded with concern. She took his hand, and he encompassed hers in return, drawing it to his mouth as he kissed the rim of her fingers. She looked at this man who was offering to step back from her, even as they stood unclothed before each other.

For her. He offered this for her.

Her head was swimming.

"No," she admitted, the words nearly sticking in her throat. "I'm not certain that I'm ready for this."

His head bowed, nodding heavily as he bit his bottom lip.

"But I am certain of one thing."

Her feet stepped back into him, her hands cupping his face that now stared at her in confusion.

"And what is that?"

She could feel his body trembling as she leaned in closer, inching forward until her mouth was a mere breath from his.

"That I don't want to stop."

Then her lips took over.

* * *

_Next installment out soon. :) Own nothing but my own coffee maker. But I would cherish your thoughts._


	5. Chapter 5

_Once again, special thanks to Cls2011, miscreant rose and Silvestria for their amazing support with this story. Big hugs! And to all of you who are reviewing and following these Mary and Blake escapades, I thank you so very much! It's been rather amazing how much traffic this story and Strangers have picked up since Episode 7 and 8 of S4 aired. :) I value every reader who takes the time to spend time with any of my stories, be they Mary and Matthew or Mary and Charles oriented, and it means so much when you drop a message or a review. _

_As everything I write has a tendency to do, this chapter simply got away from me. It doesn't seem to matter if it's Stranger's verse or canonic variation, when I put these two together, they just take over. I simply have to follow their lead. So what began as a response to a smut petition has turned into—well, you decide and let me know. Hugs to everyone, and have a lovely tomorrow!_

* * *

The shock of her mouth pressing upon his own was maddening in all the right ways, the added sensation of bare skin upon bare skin nearly burning him alive. He felt her shiver, sensing goose bumps under his palms as they dotted her flesh. Her fingers then moved to his scalp in a gesture that touched regions left dormant for years.

He was drowning in this woman.

This woman whom he had considered aloof and snobbish until just hours ago. This woman he had doubted possessed even a dram of warmth in her veins yet was now over-heating every crevice of his body. She was maddening, this Mary Crawley, a creature of layers and contradictions who had managed to capture his mind and attention before he even realized he was in danger of entrapment.

Raw physical need was driving him, steering his hands up and down her back, cupping her soft areas, her beauty drugging his reason. Mouths were still engaged, tongues wrapped around each other, both understanding that words were dangerous under such circumstances as these. His arms encircled her, daring her to leave him, begging for something he knew was best left for later.

Something best left for later. He groaned internally as that knowledge crawled stubbornly into his consciousness.

His body hardened against her, craving access, crying harshly for more. But his mind tugged at him relentlessly, warning him away from a precipice on which they stood dangerously close to the edge.

Had she not just admitted to him that she was not certain, that she may not be ready for such actions as in which they were now engaging? She was lonely, had weathered an unbearable tragedy, and was entrusting him with her vulnerability, a gift he was now unwrapping much too quickly. A widow—he held a widow and young mother trembling in his arms, one he should cherish and protect rather than lead down a road of indulgence for his own gratification.

But, oh…how he wanted her.

His arms reluctantly found her shoulders, pushing her gently from him, the loss of her warmth acting as a splash of cold water on over-charged senses. She stood trembling, lips red and swollen from his kiss, hair mussed about wantonly by his fingers.

She was a vision. And he ached all over.

"Is something wrong?" she breathed, the huskiness in her tone making this all the more difficult. His body shook slightly as it battled his conscience, and he forced his gaze to remain fixed on her face.

"Yes," he admitted, the rough edge to his tone stroking pulsing regions. "This is wrong."

She froze in confusion.

He stooped to pick up her robe, careful to keep his eyes from devouring what he selfishly wanted to claim. Her brow creased quickly, heat rushing to her cheeks as he wrapped the silken garment around her.

"Not the act, in itself," he amended quickly, noting her embarrassment. "Just the timing of it. You're not ready, which means we should stop and think this through. Being together like this is not something I want either of us to regret as soon as it's over."

She tied her covering around her waist with shaky hands, watching in a mixture of mortification and appreciation as he turned from her to fetch his own dressing gown, keeping his back turned until it was secured to his frame.

He moved back to her, standing nearly as close as he had before, haltingly stroking her hair. He was uncertain if his touch would still be welcome after putting an end to intimate proceedings with such abruptness. She leaned into him slightly, closing her eyes, touching her forehead to his.

It apparently was. He sighed in relief.

"You're right," she finally voiced, stroking the lapels of his robe, unable to yet meet his eyes.

"Would I sound like a complete cad if I told you how badly I wished that I weren't?"

She looked at him fully then, sharing a grin laden with more than they yet knew, the understanding that this dance on the ledge had been mutual releasing pent-up strain between them.

"If that would make you a cad, I hesitate to even consider what my actions over the past few minutes would make me."

He leaned in close, touching his lips to the tip of her nose as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"They define you a strong, vibrant, and passionate woman, Mary," he answered, his chest constricting at the weight of his words. "One who is ready to take charge of her life and live it."

She dropped her eyes to the floor, hiding pooling moisture that would give her away.

"And one that has taken me very much by surprise, I must admit."

His statement beckoned her attention, its truth a mutual one.

"Are you trying to be witty, Mr. Blake?" she teased, making him smile in earnest as he shook his head slightly.

"I thought your expectations for me were rather low in that department, Lady Mary," he grinned, noting how she bit her bottom lip before gazing directly at him.

"My expectations for you seem to be rising by the moment," she quipped, watching him shift uncomfortably.

"As have mine for you," he returned, noting the blush that crept up her neck as her eyes sparked in his direction.

"Well, it is a night of discovery," she stated, her pulse running away with her as he gathered her hand within his.

"Good discoveries," he repeated with a smile, brushing the tops of her fingers with lips she needed to touch. "For me, at least."

Long fingers moved to stroke his cheek, her touch somehow even more hypnotic now than it had been before.

"For me, as well."

They stood once again in silence, speaking through soft touches, reluctant to let go of something they could not yet define.

"This is not like me," she began, needing him to understand. "To be like this with a man, I mean. I haven't been with anyone since…"

Her statement stumbled upon exiting her mouth, her eyes blinking rapidly as she sought her composure.

"Since my husband died."

He drew back slightly, humbled by the personal nature of the words with which she had entrusted him.

"You are a woman, Mary," he assured her, tilting her chin in his direction to meet his eyes. "I don't think any less of you because of what has transpired between us. Quite the opposite, in fact. And I hope you think no less of me."

Rich eyes stared back at him, the edges of her mouth softening towards him.

"Hardly, Charles."

The manner in which she spoke his name made his mouth suddenly dry.

"He was a lucky man, you know."

Her body stilled, the implications of what had just been offered charging the room with something new.

"Your husband, I mean."

"Matthew," she clarified, noting how odd it felt to speak his name when she stood barely clad in the arms of another.

"Matthew," he replied, the sincerity in his eyes nudging her to tell him more. "What was he like?"

He noted the slight tremble in her chin, the flutter of her eyelashes as she sought the right words.

"He was the best person I have ever known."

He smiled down at her gently.

"I'm glad to hear that."

They moved to sit on the bed, close yet separate as they shared something quite different that what was originally intended.

"The two of you enjoyed a happy marriage, I take it?"

Somehow his words did not sting, drawing chords of peace throughout her body in a most unexpected setting.

"Yes. Very happy."

He nodded in acknowledgement, daring to lay his hand on top of hers.

"This year cannot have been easy for you."

Her exhale was audible.

"It's been hell, to be honest," she voiced quietly, her eyes focusing elsewhere. "There were weeks when I couldn't feel anything, and what emotions did surface hurt so badly I just shoved them down again."

Her shoulders slumped slightly, and he instinctively moved closer.

"Quite honestly, there were days when I actually wondered if I would ever be able to love my own child."

He squeezed her hand in assurance as her gazed refocused on him.

"I know just how horrid that sounds. There are so many moments with him I wish I could reclaim."

"You're doing a splendid job now, it would seem," he asserted, feeling her lean slightly against his shoulder.

"But I can never recover what was lost, can I?"

Her words singed old wounds of his own.

"No. No one has that sort of power."

Eyes he could get lost in sought his own for something she could not yet identify.

"Learning to live again is not an easy task, Charles."

The relief that he had not pushed her into his bed washed through him as a balm, the knowledge of how much he would have despised himself for taking advantage leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The manner in which she was baring herself now to him was far more intimate and meaningful than anything physical that would have transpired at so early an acquaintance.

"But you're doing it admirably, Mary. Day by day."

"Day by day," she echoed softly, needing to believe him, touching his arm again for reinforcement. "Thank you."

"For what?" he inquired, feeling grossly undeserving of any show of gratitude.

"For stopping me."

Her whisper slid down his spine, his every sense and emotion now at her beck and call. He could only manage a nod in response.

"I really must be getting back to my room, you know, before the servants begin to stir."

"I know," he returned, following her leisured pace to the door. "If there was already speculation about what we were up to earlier tonight, imagine what would be stirred up if you were found to be out of your room at this hour."

"We would be quite the scandal," she returned with a sleepy flash in her eyes.

"We would, indeed," he responded, handing her a lopsided grin that tugged on hopes she had all but forgotten.

They again were immobile, staring at each other as they had so many times during this night's whirlwind passage to morning.

"Goodnight, Charles," she breathed, turning to him once more as her frame slid through the newly opened door.

"Goodnight, Mary," he answered, catching the final smile she tossed him with the eagerness of child on Christmas Morning.

How long he lay awake after she left, he never knew, refusing to gaze at the clock as it somehow seemed to cheapen what had transpired since dinner's completion. The night's events replayed in his mind, and he savored memories of stubbornness and laughter, of mud and wet skin, of cooking and tasting, of touch and revelation. The irony of this attraction struck him in force as he realized that his emotions had bound themselves to a woman not yet entirely free of her husband.

But she was getting closer with each day that passed. And he would be ready when she was.


End file.
